Hazel colored Kolmården, a marble cutter, showed me one morning. That’s what her eyes,looked like against nightfall,when she begged. “Save me,” she whispered,as feathers formed,and drifted in the same breath. I exhaled smoke,And watched, galaxies vanish between our lips.  What about my concrete, and harbored self,led her to ask?Which vials possessed herto prophesize,a messiah in me? by Romila Barryman …

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